Ever loved someone till you get bored with them? Spit on their face and still tell them that you need them? Wear their hearts on your boots, and constantly step on them regardless of their hurt? I have, a few times. I told them and they kept asking, “does a goth really fall in love?” I never answered.
So one shot up from her seat and genuinely asked a question that no one had the courage to ask. “But you kill people. Do you find pleasure in that?” I was stuck there at the podium, staring blankly at all these gazes on me. “Do killers love?” I almost felt naked. But that doesn’t matter. It happened a while back.
So she texted me couple of times. I never replied. The girl I claimed to love. But she never bothered to ask. She thought maybe I don’t care. That it’s my nature not to care. That I’ve got a dark heart on my sleeves. Hopeless and regurgitated. She got hurt in the process, cause whence she looked for me, I was never there.
She forgot, that being a goth is as well as depressing. Past weeks I haven’t been me. I hid from the world. She never asked. She never called. She never came through for me. Maybe a goth doesn’t love. They feel guilt. Guilt that I had made her feel like she was in love with her own self. She felt less than a person cared for. And I don’t know how to say sorry. I really don’t. I don’t do good with sweet words, flattering and I love yous. I really don’t. But I was guilty she hurt. So I did what most goths wouldn’t do. I wrote a happy poem for her. To make smile and all that shit that comes with the feels of butterflies in her tummy. I tried. I wasn’t perfect. But I tried. I struggled, but I had to do it. Can’t you see that I tried? Do you know how murdering it is to have a goth write of a happy ending? Blue skies, flower girls and green fields? A beautiful girl and a passionate kiss??
She read. She blue ticked, and sent it to the dustbin. Sent letters. Never read them. Sent them back to me unopened. I got hurt. I Was hoping that it could mark some new beginning. But she knew better. That goths don’t change overnight. That goths don’t love. Maybe she was right. But it hurt me. Knowing that she saw no Hope in me. That she gave up in me. Left me in he precipices of graveyards, howls, bats, fogs and mist, sprouting like worms neath my feet. It wasn’t her fault. Maybe this is how she often felt. The hurt. She sent it to the dustbin. Can you imagine that?
All my efforts effortlessly flaunted into the bin. Maybe she was right. The worst part, I was a writer, and I was a goth. And the words of such a person, are the kinds that’ll burn you. Melt you. Tore you from the inside out. Limb by limb. Leave you begging for more. Questioning everything you’ve ever known about love and romance. Thinking that your past lovers didn’t know how to get it right.
It all didn’t work out. So I raced to her apartment, knocked and said sorry.
She rolled her eyes.
She said,
“You’re a writer, you’re a goth. I don’t believe every word you say. You’re a fantasy I will never have. ”
Shut the door on my face.
Sat down on her veranda, back leaning on her door. Thinking.
Who will ever believe me for who I am?
Huh, maybe she wasn’t heaven sent. She was karma sent.
….
By Phill Ibsen
( Master Of Descriptions )
A Heart_Art_Poetics productions
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